Duped like the vicar's dawning on meths,
The stellar sarcasm of all beckoning tombs
Invite with glee the messy, mortal fray
Doing turns like tops for patriotic slops
Medal lost in the ridges of the tractor tyre.
Fudged into the copper mud,
You join the conned, cold lifeless slain.

Where docile, gardened, vacuumed pride
Does momentously grace our virtuous, pompous tides
While the reaper forgiving the great whores
Who snigger,
As swag wipes it's muddy, bath-time feet on your

His musket, pipe and gun
Becomes composed of blood.
Symphony of unforgiveness
Played alongside
Another's 'march funebre'.
Harmonic jarring
Of epochal dimension,
But the boy did well
He died for his country.

Unacceptable like otherness,
Venom to the defended,
Or pox to the small minded.
White knuckled, like infantile rage
Still reeling in sweat.
Rank like chum turfed off the boat
For a trillion miles or so,
All for some mythical shark-fin.
But the boy died well,
He did for his country.

Swathes of peeling bells, tear-rusted,
Creak pendulous throughout heaven.
Amidst the sigh of all gods
At such a sodden human brew.
Made of hair and teeth in knots,
Gravel and limb-sockets
Or an eyebrow in a box.
Bits of some bloody poor sod
A bloody poor sod